The Pact
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: Jackson and April made a pact when they were 18 - if they're both still single by 35, they'll get married. At 30, when April receives a wedding invitation from Jackson and another woman, real life hits her like a truck. What's meant to be will always be, but sometimes it takes a few detours to get there.


**12 YEARS AGO**

It's the summer before we leave for college, and everything we do feels like an ending. It's always the 'last' something. The last time we go for ice cream. The last time we get locked out of our houses. The last time the lifeguard yells at us at the public pool.

Right now, sitting in the open trunk of Lexie's hatchback, is the last time me and Jackson will watch Fourth of July fireworks together. Maybe that's not true. Maybe we'll both come back and watch them next summer, too. But it doesn't feel like that. And even if we do, it won't be like this. If we come home next summer, we won't be the same people we are right now.

So, I've been trying to soak it all in. It's hard, though, when I'm conscious of every passing moment - trying to cling to them as if my days are numbered. It feels like they are, though. College seems like a death sentence. I've never been more afraid of anything in my life.

Somehow, Jackson isn't frightened at all. As with most everything else, he's relaxed and cool. That's because he'll make friends fast. It's not that easy for me. Senior year was when I finally got comfortable. And now, that's over. I'm about to be dropped into a huge new pond with no familiar faces. Just thinking about it makes me sweat, and I don't need more of that on this sweltering, muggy night.

"I think it's dusk now," I say, slouching as I look up at the purple sky. "Shouldn't they be starting soon?"

"It's definitely not dark enough," Lexie says. She and Mark are sitting on a big blanket on the ground in front of us. It's her car, yet somehow Jackson and I got the better seats.

I sigh and rest my elbows on my knees, thankful that I put on bug spray. Jackson refused for reasons I don't know, but I don't envy him. He'll be itching for the whole ride home, I guarantee.

I swing my feet back and forth, passing the time as small fireworks shoot off in the distance. "Are those them?" I ask.

Jackson laughs. "We're in the wrong spot if they are."

"That would be the saddest fireworks show ever," Mark adds. "Be patient, Red."

"I think we should have fireworks at our wedding," Lexie says, watching the civilian fireworks a few miles away. "I love them. Big ones. Those loud, gold ones."

She's always talking about their wedding. It's common knowledge that the two of them will get married someday. They've been off and on again since middle school. Maybe even before that. Mark goes along with it - sometimes begrudgingly - but we all know how much he loves Lexie. He'd do anything for her. Watching and listening to them always makes me wish I had someone like that.

"Sure, babe," Mark says.

"I want a fire tornado at my wedding," Jackson pipes up.

Without looking at him, I smile. "Yeah, same," I say. "Me, too."

"Hey, April," he says, his tone light. "Wanna get married?"

Instantly, I light up. "Yeah, sure," I say, grinning as I address Lexie and Mark. "Guys, me and Jackson are gonna get married and have fire tornadoes at our wedding."

"As long as we're invited," Lexie says.

"Of course," I say, leaning against the side of the trunk. "You're in the wedding party."

"Good."

A few minutes later, the fireworks finally start. With my neck craned to watch the show, I let myself get lost in the pretty lights and deafening booms, soaking in the fact that my favorite person in the world is right next to me. More than anything else, I want him to reach over and take my hand. It would perfect; so perfect, I can practically feel it. He doesn't, though. We just watch the show and experience it together, knowing we probably won't get this feeling back.

Afterwards, Lexie drops Jackson and me off at my house, where his car is parked. It's after midnight, but I'm not tired at all.

"I'm glad it got cooler out," Jackson says, sitting down in the middle of my driveway. Sometimes, he does that. Just plops down anywhere and makes himself comfortable. It's one of my favorite things about him. He has no concept of the word 'awkward,' while that's probably what encompasses me the best.

"Me, too," I say, sitting next to him. "Swimming through the air was getting really old."

He chuckles and lays flat, staring up at the stars. "I see the Little Dipper," he says. It's always visible from my house. He's been saying that for years.

I lay down, too, my hands folded behind my head. The cement is hard under my back, but it feels good. Being here beside him, as the night grows darker and smoother, feels right. "Pretty soon we won't be able to do this anymore," I say, voicing what's been running through my head all evening. It's a relief to finally put it out there. It stops the information from festering inside my mind.

"I know," he says, and there's a bit of heaviness in his voice that I normally don't hear. I turn my head and when I do, he does too. Then, he smiles softly, a little sadly, and says, "I'm gonna miss it."

I bolster my courage and respond with, "I'm gonna miss you."

"Yeah," he says, sighing. "That too. A lot."

We're quiet for a bit until I speak again. "I wonder how we're gonna make those fire tornadoes."

He laughs a little, saying, "We'll figure out a way." He pauses, and I can practically hear the gears in his mind working. "I bet we could." Another pause. "You know, I don't think we'd be bad together."

My heart jumps and clogs my throat. I turn my head slightly, then tip it back towards the sky. I can't look at him right now. "No?" I say.

He makes a positive sound. "No," he says. "I think we'd work."

"Yeah, same," I say, afraid to go any further.

"I say, if we're both still single at 35, we should get together," he says. "Get married."

I can't resist anymore. I have to look over. And I do, with my eyebrows raised and lips slightly parted. "For real?" I say.

"Yeah," he answers with a smile. His eyes are sparkly and happy, the way I love to see them. "I mean, it's not like you'll be single when you're 35. Someone's gonna snatch you up."

"Psh, no," I say, snorting. "Someone's gonna snatch _you_ up."

"Nah," he says, then sticks out his hand for me to shake. "Shake on it."

I pump his hand once, unable to control my grin. I can't pinpoint the exact moment where my feelings for him started, but they've been bubbling beneath the surface for a long time. Years, maybe. He's the brother of one of my best friends, Maggie, and once I started to see him differently, it was over. I've never told anyone, and I don't plan to. My feelings for him are only for me to know, and this little pact we've made has to be enough. It's not like it'll come true, but at least it's something to hold onto.

**PRESENT**

When I get home from work at the end of the day, I'm bone-tired. I grab a handful of mail that got pushed in through the old-fashioned letter slot and kick off my shoes, peering around the wall to the living room.

"Hi, baby girl," I say.

I smile when my brindle greyhound, Olive, picks her head up and looks at me, ears perked. She sleeps like the dead, but my voice can always rise her. In response to seeing my face, she wags her tail and smiles in her dog way, rolling over when I come to pet her.

"Oh, it was a long one today," I say, sighing as I plop down next to her. Habitually, she rests her head on my thigh and wags her tail some more, thump-thump-thumping against the couch cushions. I pet her bony forehead and close my eyes, letting my neck go slack.

I'm a pediatrician for a small hospital in Blue Hill, Maine, where I live now. We usually don't get emergency or high-risk cases, but today was never-ending. It's flu season, so I'm not surprised, but I don't have energy left for much else tonight. Not that there's anything on the docket. Because my job keeps me so busy, Olive is the only person I have to entertain. Dog. Not person.

Though sometimes she does feel like a person. I talk to her like one all the time.

"Let's see what we got today," I say, lifting my head to examine the pile of mail in my lap. Hearing my voice, Olive wags again. "I know," I say, flipping through the envelopes. "Bill, bill, junk, bill. Huh. What's this…?"

I pull out an envelope that's gray, bigger and heavier than the rest. There's an embossed wax seal on the flap, and when I turn it around I see that it's addressed to me in fancy cursive. In the top left corner, where the return address is located, I see a name I haven't read in years. Avery.

"Jackson Avery?" I say aloud, eyebrows coming together in the way they do when I'm especially concentrated.

I haven't heard from him in years. We tried to stay close through college, but we both got busy - him with sports, myself with various academic clubs - and we grew naturally apart. It broke my heart at the time, and when I let myself think about it, it does still sting. But life happens and friendships splinter. I had to come to terms with that. I couldn't cling to him forever. Lord knows he didn't cling to me.

But why am I getting a letter from him now, over ten years since the last time I saw him in person? I haven't kept up with him at all. I'm not on Facebook or Twitter, and I rarely use my Instagram. My last post was from three years ago, the day I got Olive. I tell myself that I'm too busy for social media, but sometimes I do wish that I was on it. The feeling of being alone in an empty house gets heavy some nights, especially in the winter. I've made myself into something of an island, and I don't know how to get off it now. But on the other hand, seeing everyone else's perfect lives on a screen might make that feeling even worse. I don't need to see how good everyone else has it to know that my life leaves much to be desired.

But I'm letting my mind wander. I just need to open the letter. I rip it carefully, like there's something precious inside, and go slow. The suspense builds, tension rides in my shoulders, and when I pull out the card stock I know exactly what it is.

A wedding invitation. A bad taste appears on my tongue and my stomach lurches, almost like I'm going to throw up. Such a visceral reaction over someone I haven't talked to in a decade. Someone who I supposedly don't have feelings for anymore, and was never supposed to have feelings for in the first place.

He's marrying a woman named McCarthy. What kind of name is that? There aren't human women out there named McCarthy. That can't be a thing. That's a last name of a banker, not the blonde woman with the 100-watt smile standing next to my childhood best friend's brother who I was supposed to marry at 35.

I can't help it, but I'm gutted. Absolutely gutted. I shouldn't be, I know that's silly. It's not like we promised to wait for each other, and he never saw me in the same light as I saw him, anyway. We never broke that barrier, and he found someone. I should be happy for him. He's beaming. He looks good, and so grown up. I don't feel as grown up as he looks, but I guess we both are now. We're adults, and I'll handle this like an adult. He reached out and invited me, which was an incredibly kind gesture. The least I can do is return it by RSVPing 'yes.'

I'm a bit sore as I check the box, though.

…

Like I said, I don't get out much. So, in the weeks leading up to the wedding, I fit a shopping trip in anywhere I can. I'm determined to find the perfect dress, though I don't know why I care so much. But I do, and there's no stopping it. Once I get my mind on something, there's no changing it. I have to find a dress that fits the occasion, makes me look like an adult and not a teenager going to prom, but one that doesn't overshadow the bride. I haven't been to a lot of weddings, but I know that's something you should never do.

There was an option for a plus-one, but I can't think of anyone I'd like to take. I have casual friends at the hospital, but no one that qualifies as wedding date material. Even platonically. I'm so used to spending time alone that the thought of conversing with a designated acquaintance for more than an hour makes me itch. I'd rather go alone, even if it makes me look pathetic, which it inevitably will.

In reality, I just want to see him. Jackson. I want to know what he looks like now, in person. What he sounds like. Before we left for college, he barely had a deep voice. He hit puberty late, and his sister always teased him for it. I thought it was cute and endearing, though he resented his body for it. I'm sure things are different now. We're 30 years old. He's a fully-grown man. It's strange to think of him as such when we met as 8-year-olds and became close as teenagers. He's still stuck in that phase in my mind's eye.

The dress I eventually find is blush pink and knee-length, with lace decals on the skirt. It's subtle, but feminine and pretty. It wasn't too expensive, but it wasn't cheap, either. When I try it on - in the store and multiple times at home in front of my full-length mirror - I know it's the one. I feel good in it. I feel confident. And I'm going to need as much confidence as I can get.

The wedding is on a Friday, and I take Thursday and the weekend off, too, to give myself time to travel and also a reprieve. I trust Olive with her dog-walker for a few days, then set off to Myrtle Beach, where the wedding is being held. I'm not sure if this is where Jackson lives now, or if this counts as a destination wedding. Either way, it's a destination for me. I haven't been this far away from Maine in a long time - maybe, since I moved there. That's a sad thought. I really need to get out more. Jackson met someone. It's time that I did, too. I promise myself that when I go back, I'll try harder. Go out drinking with my coworkers when they invite me. And if that doesn't work, I'll join Tinder or something. I need to get out of this rut.

When I check into the hotel - The Island Vista Resort - I'm as tired as I would be at the end of a work day. Originally, I had planned on dropping my things off and setting out straight for downtown, but the bed is too tempting. So, I lay down and promise myself that I'll just rest my eyes for a few minutes, then get up. It won't be long.

When I wake up, it's dark outside and I sit up with a start, rubbing my eyes while trying to remember where I am. "Shit," I say aloud, bending forward while running my hands up and down my face. According to the clock, it's almost 10 and I'm wide awake, having wasted the entire afternoon sleeping in the clothes I wore on the plane, on top of the hotel covers.

I wander around the hotel room for a bit, considering staying in, ordering room service, and watching a movie or two. But then I remember what I promised myself and change my mind, deciding to shower and put some makeup on, then go see what Myrtle Beach is like at night.

I discover that it's hot, for one. I'm sweating even though I'm only in skinny jeans and a sleeveless blouse, hair half up. And it's busier than I expected, but I like it. The noise and activity make me feel less alone.

I walk around for a bit until I find a bar that looks welcoming, then head inside. The music is loud but not obnoxiously so, and I find a place at the bar easily, ordering a martini as soon as I catch the bartender's attention.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," a voice says - one that makes me jump. I turn towards the source with wide eyes, hoping it's who I think it might be. And it is. Standing about a foot away, leaning to rest an elbow on the countertop is Jackson, smiling a smile I could never forget. "You always hated alcohol."

My lips part by just a bit. Suddenly, I'm at a loss for words. He looks exactly the same, yet so, so different. He finally has the facial hair he tried so hard to grow. He doesn't wear glasses anymore, at least he isn't right now. His hair is much shorter. But his eyes don't look a day over 18. "Jackson," I say, finally smiling. The shock wears away and is replaced by utter joy. I hadn't let myself realize just how much I missed him.

"You made it," he says, pulling me in for a big hug. He rubs my back with gusto, holding on for a beat longer than I expected he would.

"I RSVP'd 'yes'," I say, once we're looking at each other again.

"Still, though," he says. "Thought you might be too busy kicking ass and saving lives the way you do."

"Oh," I say. "You know that I'm a doctor?"

"Googled ya once or twice," he says, winking. "Since you're too cool for Facebook, I had to keep up somehow."

"Oh," I say, face heating up. I hope the light in here is too dim for him to notice. "Yeah. Of course I came. It's your wedding."

"Well, I'm really glad you're here," he says.

"What're you doing out?" I ask, eyebrows crinkling. "Shouldn't you be getting your rest for tomorrow?" I look around. "Or are you here with your friends? Or… or her?"

"Just me," he says, flagging down the bartender. "Rum and Coke, please," he says with a polite smile. "Yep, just me. I felt like getting out for a bit. My last night as a single man and all."

"Well, you're technically not single," I point out.

He chuckles softly. "Alright, nitpicker," he says. "I see you haven't changed."

"Not a bit," I say, sipping my martini.

"Except that you apparently like grownup drinks now," he says. "No more Shirley Temples at Applebee's."

"Hey," I say, smirking. "Those were actually good. You just never gave them a chance."

"I gave them a chance when I was six," he says, then finally sits. I hope he stays. I know I shouldn't hope that, but I do.

His drink comes and he takes a generous sip, setting it gently down once he's finished. I catch myself watching him without saying anything, and I can't seem to stop. I wonder if I look as grown up as he does. We're the same age, it would only make sense that I do, but it's still hard to believe. Sitting across from him, I feel like a teenager again. He's brought me back to that carefree place, and it hasn't even been 10 minutes.

"You look good," he says, as if he's reading my mind.

"So do you," I reply, and it's the truth. He does. Better than good. But there's not an appropriate way I can say that.

"Eh," he says, shrugging. "I got old."

"30 isn't old," I say, though sometimes I catch myself thinking the same.

"Sure feels like it," he says. "My knees are shit. Ruined 'em with the running. And I found a gray hair the other day."

"I hope you didn't pluck it," I say. "That's bad luck."

"You just made that up," he says with a smile. "And either way, it's not like you have to worry about that. Somehow, your hair looks even redder than the last time I saw you." He eyes me, looking mischievous. "You coloring it now?"

"No!" I say, pretending to be offended. "How dare you!?"

He laughs, eyes crinkling at the sides like they always used to. "Just making sure," he says. "I know you like to keep it au naturale."

For some reason, I blush again. It seems borderline inappropriate, his comment, but I'm sure he didn't mean it in that way. My mind is just in the gutter. It needs to come out.

Amending my hiccup in the conversation, he fills the gap. "So, are you here with anyone?" he asks. I shake my head no, sipping as I do. "Seeing anyone?" he asks.

"Nope," I say, finishing off my martini. I don't drink often and it's already going to my head. I wonder if that was a mistake, but I find myself ordering another. It's worth it, if only for the surprised look on Jackson's face that follows. "Are you?"

As soon as we both realize what I've asked, we crack up laughing. Doubled over, unable to catch our breath, like we did years ago. "Huh, let me think about that," Jackson says sarcastically, sitting up to tap his chin. "Hmm…"

"God, I'm dumb," I say, wiping my eyes. "McCarthy. McCarthy the banker."

Confusion filters through his eyes. "The banker?" he says, amused. "She's a realtor. Where'd you get that?"

Shit. I'm making my way to drunk and my lips are getting loose. Of course she's not a banker, no matter how much her name makes her sound like one. "Must be thinking of another McCarthy," I say. "Since so many of them exist."

I know he catches the snideness in my comment, but he doesn't acknowledge it with words. "So, how is it that you're not seeing anyone?" he asks, reverting the subject back.

I shrug, dampening a bit. I take a swig of my drink. "Just not," I say. "I don't know. I don't have a lot of free time."

"Oh, come on," he says. "You found time to come and see me."

"Yeah, exactly," I say.

"What?"

"It was to see you," I say, but I speak while staring into my drink. There's no way I can meet his eyes and let that sentiment free. I don't know why I say it at all. The timing couldn't be worse. It's definitely the alcohol talking. If I were sober, I probably would have already left.

"I'm glad you did."

"You already said that."

"Well, I'm just really glad," he says, and even with my eyes on the clear liquid in front of me I can tell he's smiling. "You wanna look at me, or is your glass really interesting?" With a sigh, I acquiesce and lift my head, centering my eyes directly on his, which are alive with feeling. "I missed you," he tells me.

The feeling that had been twisting inside my heart since he sat down suddenly bursts throughout my entire being. My whole body pulses with too many emotions to put a finger on - desire, excitement, relief, frustration. I don't know which to convey on my face. The mixture of them probably looks something close to crazy.

The most I can do is reply with, "I missed you so much."

…

I barely sleep at all that night. When my alarm blares in the morning, signaling that I need to get up and start getting ready if I want to look presentable (read: impressive), I feel like I've been hit by a truck. By someone else's standards, I didn't drink all that much last night. But by my own, I went overboard. I can still remember everything I said and every interaction with Jackson, so it can't be that bad. And I'm glad I still have those memories, because I'll probably hold onto them for a long time to come.

I sit up in bed and find thoughts of Olive sneaking in through the mental images of Jackson. I think I dreamed about them both last night in very, very different contexts. I can't help but wonder how she's doing. I consider calling the dog-walker, but put the thought out of my mind. I haven't reached _that_ level yet. And my mind has to be here today. For Jackson.

And McCarthy.

He barely talked about her at all last night. After my wise-guy banker crack, the subject seemed almost taboo and I don't know why. I don't know anything more about her than I came here knowing. She's blonde, conventionally pretty, and tall. I guess I now know that she's a realtor, he gave me that nugget of information, but I honestly could've guessed as much on my own.

Today is actually happening. I'm going to watch him get married, which is something that strangely never crossed my mind. It's not like I went through these years thinking we'd actually act on our pact, but the other option seemed equally as farfetched. But that idea is over and done with, because today is the day. In just a few hours, I'll be in the audience, watching them take their vows. And afterwards, being introduced to McCarthy in a stilted, forced manner that makes my stomach clench when I think about it. I wish I could skip over that part. I tend to be automatically awkward with new people, especially new people who hold her type of role. Meaning, the role of stealing my future husband.

I laugh a little bit at that thought, as if it makes any sense at all. Still, I'm allowed to indulge myself. Who else is here to read my thoughts? It's a free country.

Inevitably, things will change between Jackson and me. Instead of reconnecting seamlessly like we did last night, she'll be on his arm if we ever see each other again. And that much is doubtful in itself. We live so far away from each other (I found out that he does live here in South Carolina), and we both work crazy hours (he's a cop). Our friendship obviously wasn't meant to last, and that's okay. I can accept that. I think.

I wait to put the dress on until I'm finished with everything else - it's the very last step. I've done my makeup better than I ever have before, and curled my hair painstakingly. All the while making it look like I didn't try _too_ hard, when in fact I'm not sure if I've ever tried harder. When I put the dress on and glance in the mirror, I can't help but smile. I haven't cared about something as trivial as my appearance in a long time, a life in scrubs will do that to a person, but I can admit I look nice. Pretty. Adult. And I feel like one, too, in a good way.

It's not quite time to leave yet, but I can't stay in this room any longer. I gather my things in my small clutch and head out the door, walking down the hall to reach the elevators. I'll take an Uber to the venue and wander around for a bit, making myself scarce so I won't get roped into any painful small talk.

I ride the elevator down until I reach the lobby, and I'm trying to dig my phone out of my clutch in the way I had just finagled it when I hear my name. I lift my head, confused, wondering who around here would know me. I'm even more confused when I see who spoke.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

It's Jackson. It could be no one else but Jackson. In a suit, no less, a suit that looks like the one he's supposed to get married in.

My eyes widen as the only answer he gives me is a smile. "You look nice," he says, avoiding the question. "Actually, scratch that. You look beautiful, April."

I smile so hard that my gums probably show. To anyone else, it would probably be unsightly and a little scary. But he looks charmed. And he should really not be here looking charmed, or _being_ charming, for that matter.

"You didn't answer me," I say, trying to regain composure. "What in the world are you doing here? You get married in less than two hours."

He takes a few steps closer and closes the distance between us so we can speak quieter. Our conversation is private now. His eyes are magnetic, holding everything I refused to let myself feel, and staring into them is dangerous. Beyond dangerous. "Do you remember our pact?" he asks. "The one we made when we were 18, in your driveway?"

I pull my lips into my mouth and run my tongue over them, doing nothing but buying time. Maybe making it seem like I have to think to remember, when in reality it's all that's been on my mind since receiving the invite in the mail. He has to know that I remember. Of course I do. "Yeah," I say, grinning softly. "Yeah, I remember our pact."

"And the fire tornadoes?" he asks, coming even closer. I don't back up. I don't want to, and my feet also might be cemented to the floor.

"Of course, the fire tornadoes," I say, never taking my eyes off him. "You said you wanted those at your wedding. Will I get to see them later?"

He shakes his head no, coming closer still. Now, there are only inches between us. The veneer is about to break and I have a feeling I won't be the one to shatter it. "We were going to have them at _our_ wedding," he says.

"Right," I say. "It wouldn't be… right."

When he reaches and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, I lean into his touch. I shouldn't, but it feels so good. Our eyes haven't left each other, not even for a moment. I know this is wrong. He has a bride waiting for him, probably getting ready as we toe whatever line we're toeing. As I conjure up her face in my head, I know we can't do this. Whatever we're about to do.

"McCarthy," I mutter, breathing his air. My eyelashes flutter and my heart doesn't slow down as I say it.

And the expression on his face doesn't falter. "Will probably put a hit out on me, after what I told her this morning," he whispers. His hand has now made a home on the side of my face, cradling my jaw. Nothing has ever felt so natural.

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

He pauses for a moment, eyes on my lips. "That I can't go through with the wedding," he says. "That I'd refund her parents for everything, somehow. But I couldn't do it." He takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to mine. "Because I'm in love with someone else."

I already know the answer. But still, I ask. If only to satisfy my need to hear him say it. "Who?" I whisper.

He uses his other hand to cup my face, pulling it in towards his. "You," he says, then kisses me for the very first time.

It may be the first time, but it feels like this is something we've been doing for years. Our mouths move against each other fluidly and naturally, memorizing the pace like a practiced couple. I throw my arms over his shoulders and his wind around my back, pulling my body flush to his. I've never felt him like this, never had him in such a way, and I don't want it to end.

It can't end. And I know he's thinking the same thing, so I say, "Come up to my room."

We get there in a blur, kissing and laughing as we go. I feel like a misbehaving teenager, something I never was when I was the right age. Instead of the adult I was just minutes ago, Jackson has brought me back to the youthfulness he always used to bring out in me. When my dress comes off and he touches my skin for the first time, it's fresh. Something new. Something I never thought I'd experience in a million years.

When I'm under him on the hotel bed, the white comforter bunched around us like clouds, he kisses me with passion. "I can't believe this is really happening," I say, and the words escape without my permission. It's true, though. It's surreal.

He lifts up to look me in the eyes. "I think it was supposed to," he says, then kisses me again. With his body resting on top of mine, I feel complete. Whole, in a way I never have before. "You and me. It's supposed to be you and me. I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too," I say, holding his head while he kisses my neck. "But you never called."

"I thought you got married," he says. "That's what you wanted. It's always what you pictured. Figured you'd make it happen. You've always been good at making things happen."

I laugh a little, hugging his shoulders. "There's no man at my house," I say. "There never has been. Only me and my dog, Olive."

He laughs now. "I hope she likes me," he says, and those words make warmth exude through my chest all the way to the tips of my toes. I'm not going to lose him again. We've got each other for good now.

I slept with a few guys in college, but it's been a while. So when he sinks inside me, our two becoming one, it takes a few moments to get used to the feeling. It's a lot to wrap my head around, the fact that this is something we're doing, together. And it's something we'll always do.

I smile when I think about it, and he touches my chin. "Whatcha smilin' about, smiler?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, kissing the pad of his thumb. "Everything, I guess."

When he starts to move, I wrap all my limbs around him as tightly as I can. I kiss the sweat off his neck and he pants into my ear, his strong body moving lithely over and inside my own. The sounds he makes are guttural and animalistic, but they only make me love him more. I want all of him. I want to know every inch, in and out. I feel the inescapable need to make up for all the years we lost.

But we have plenty of time. I don't need to force all of that knowing into the sex we're having right now. I tell myself that it's okay to get lost in the moment, to let myself go, and loosen the reins. Once I do, that's when it starts to feel good. Then amazing. Then phenomenal.

He comes first, but I'm not long after. It's not magic, it'll take time to know what makes both of our bodies tick, but that's what makes it even better. How real it is. He asks questions, confirms what I like and what I don't, and eventually gives me an orgasm with his mouth and tongue. So far, that's my favorite feeling - out of anything I've ever felt. I can't wait for more of that.

When it's over, we lie side-by-side, sweating and breathing hard. I smile, turning my head to look at him, to find him already watching me. After a small pause, he says, "Run away with me."

I roll onto my side and throw an arm around his waist, pulling him closer with one leg capturing both of his. There isn't a single inch of breathable space between us. My skin is pressed right up against his and his against mine, and that's exactly how I want it.

"No," I say, and I can tell the answer surprises him. His eyes grow wide and his eyebrows furrow, coming together while creating a singular line of worry between them. I smile, breaking the tension, and stroke his facial hair. I relish the feeling under the pads of my fingers, knowing how many years to come I'll be feeling it. "I don't wanna run away. I want to go home." I smile, nudging his nose with mine. "Come home with me."

He kisses me then, long and slow. When he pulls away, after petting sticky hair out of my eyes, he says, "I'd love to."


End file.
